Roxanne
by Colorain
Summary: Roxanne (Nini) gets a dance lesson from our favorite Narcoleptic Argentinean. An "R" cause I said a bad word and implied things. Oh, shoot me now!
1. Roxanne-The Dance

Roxanne

Rated PG-13 for language I wouldn't normally use in real life, and what may come. Inspired by "Tango de Roxanne" and the characters. If the Argentinean has a name, would someone send it to me? And, to be quite honest, I've forgotten the name of the courtesan he danced with. It's probably Nini or Arabia or something like that, but can we just pretend her name is Roxanne? All right, I have confirmation that her name is Nini. Too bad. From now on, that's her courtesan name. Her real name is Roxanne. It fits so much better-and if you really want to correct me on it I won't get mad. By the way, I'm sorry at how horrible this is-did I ever tell you I suck at plots? Don't kill me too much on this one.

For some reason, he had started it. The musicians had picked up on the music quite quickly, and they played to his voice rather well. He had danced first with Roxanne; the others learned soon enough. The entire hall moved in fluid, sensuous gestures. It seemed passionate and yet distant, cold: it was, after all, the dance to tell a prostitute how one felt about her.

And who in their right mind would love a prostitute? Christian, perhaps, but he was a naive, innocent baby of a boy. He was getting possessive already, over a girl that could never be his. Even now, she was with the Duke, most likely fucking the stuffing out of the man. She was a courtesan, after all, and it didn't matter how much you dressed up the girl or the name. You were still a prostitute.

His gravelly voice brought her quickly back to the present. "Roxanne!" he sang, his voice anguished and full of pain. Almost like he cared. But of course he couldn't care, because the men were shoving her to the floor, rejecting her like yesterday's refuse. While she had gotten used to the rejection-she wasn't Satine, after all, and nothing quite compared to a diamond-it still hurt, every time.

It was a diversion, obviously, meant to take their minds away from what was happening with Satine and the Duke. Christian had slipped away, probably to go trash something, and the diversion was over. Everyone was thinking about the fate of the play, and Roxanne couldn't stand the silence any longer.

Gathering up her skirts, as well as her courage, she walked over to the Argentinean. Aware that everyone was watching her, she kept her head up high.

"Sir," she whispered in her most seductive voice. "That was quite a dance. Would you come up to my room later . . . for a repeat performance?"

He looked surprised, his thick eyebrows climbing his forehead. Roxanne herself was equally surprised when he agreed to it, his textured voice saying "Of course. Shall I see you at nine?"

Everyone had heard that. She nodded and turned away from him. That would give everyone something to talk about, and take their minds off of Satine.

Part of her had done it for the benefit of the crowd, but a larger part of her had done it for her. Perhaps this man would be different. Anyone who could show love to a prostitute, even in a dance, could be worth something.

Steeling herself from the curious eyes surrounding her, Roxanne walked away.


	2. Roxanne-What Happened After

Roxanne

Rated PG-13 for language I wouldn't normally use in real life, and probably some implied things. Inspired by "Tango de Roxanne" and the characters. If the Argentinean has a name, would someone send it to me? For the life of me I haven't a clue what it is. And, to be quite honest, I've forgotten the name of the courtesan he danced with. It's probably Nini or Arabia or something like that, but can we just pretend her name is Roxanne? All right, I have confirmation that her name is Nini. Too bad. From now on, that's her courtesan name. Her real name is Roxanne. It fits so much better-and if you really want to correct me on it I won't get mad. You can guess what happens in the end, right? By the way, I'm horribly proud of this chapter! I think I did quite well on it. Let me know, won't you?

He was punctual; she would give him that. At precisely nine o'clock, Roxanne heard a sharp knock at her door. She closed her eyes a brief moment before getting up. She really didn't know what she had been thinking inviting him here. He was horribly handsome and seemed nice enough, but the only interest he had shown in her was the dance earlier tonight.

She had dressed in less flamboyant clothes than usual. As much as she might want to, she wasn't here to seduce him. She was here to dance with him. If that progressed to something else, well then, all the better . . .

When she opened the door, her intake of breath was audible. He was dressed handsomely. Somewhere he had conjured up a suit-threadbare to be certain, but still dashing. He hadn't shaved, and his stubble somehow fit in quite perfectly with his slightly cultured appearance. 

"I am here for your _dancing lesson_," he said gravelly, looking Roxanne over appreciatively and putting emphasis on the last two words. His eyes smoldered, and Roxanne could swear she was falling into them.

He noticed her unabashed fawning and added, "But you did so well earlier this evening, we could always skip the lesson."

Roxanne bit her lower lip. Things were moving a bit faster than she would have liked. "No, I think we should dance first." Somewhere she had rustled up a record of music well suited for the tango, and she dropped the needle on it.

The violins started in their haunting melody, and the Argentinean walked quickly over to grasp her hand. The hairs on the back of Roxanne's neck rose as she felt a tiny quiver of electricity pass between their bodies. 

"Shall we begin-" she started to say, but he was already dancing. She noticed how concentrated he became, and she surmised that dancing was one of his passions.

__

Damn, she thought quietly, _but if he wasn't a better dancer in private than he was in public._ When he danced with her, she felt she couldn't make a mistake even if she tried.

"You are doing wonderfully," he whispered into her ear, and she shivered at the warmth of his breath. Now was her cue to whisper back something witty and charming and seductive all at the same time, so he would love her, but she found she couldn't do it. The man practically disarmed her when it came to seductive powers.

"I had a good teacher." she said simply. It wasn't a lie, or even a come-on. It was the utter and absolute truth. He smiled at the compliment, and Roxanne found herself smiling back.

__

Oh, Roxanne, her inner voice scolded. _What have you gotten yourself into? You can't fall in love now. You're a courtesan. Men use you and then they leave you. Emotional attachment never helped anybody._

But I'll bet he's different, another part whispered. _I'll bet he'd stay the night and wake up in the morning and hold you in his arms forever and ever._

"Hold me?" she asked him, echoing what her heart had already asked for. And he complied, his large arms encircling her, pulling her close against his chest. She breathed him in, content from the whisper of sweat and soap and spice he exuded.

"Why did you do it, Roxanne?" Startled at the question, she looked up into his eyes. They were troubled. What had she done to cause him this pain?

"Do what?" she replied. "And how did you know my name?"

He smiled, a sad window into his soul. "I asked, Roxanne. I simply asked."

"Oh," she said quietly, and they danced slowly for another moment before she continued. "What did I do?"

His lips pressed themselves together and his brow furrowed. She brought her hand up, haltingly, unsure if it was what he wanted, to wipe away his discontent.

"You told the duke about Satine and Christian. Why did you do it?" he asked.

With a whimper, Roxanne broke away from their embrace and sat on her bed. Her shoulders drooped inward and her body shook with the beginnings of sobs.

"I was hoping you wouldn't ask that," she gasped out, her voice thick with sorrow. The Argentinean strode over to the bed and held Roxanne in his arms tenderly, resting his chin gently on top of her head.

"You must tell me, Roxanne. I must know if we are to have a trusting relationship. Christian is my friend, and I cannot be with you without knowing why you hurt him."

She sniffed, and realized he had said the word _relationship_. He must want one, she thought giddily. Oh, but I wish I didn't have to tell him.

"It's hard," she began. "It's so hard, seeing happiness when you have no hope for your own. Satine is the Sparkling Diamond of the Moulin Rouge. She is the star, no? Men flock to see her, to give her necklaces that capture the stars and the moon and the sun. They want her. We, in comparison, are the Diamond Dogs. It's not as nice a name, is it? We are lucky if men wait till we wake up in the morning before leaving. Have you ever gotten up one day, still warm with the memories of last night, only to realize you are again alone? That you will always be alone because of your profession? I'm second best to her. I was jealous of her happiness. I . . . I don't know what came over me. She is like a sister to us all, and I hurt her! I didn't mean it, oh, no, I didn't mean it at all . . ."

Roxanne broke down, tears streaming down her face. The Argentinean smiled at her.

"Did I ever mention that you capture the rainbows in your tears?" Her head shot up in shock. "Or that the perfection of a summer day is inscribed in your face?"

"Damn." Roxanne said. "You're a better poet than Christian."

"I love you, Roxanne. I've loved you since I first saw you. I only wanted you to love me too."

"But I _do_ love you!" she shouted. "I do love you . . ." 

The tango was still playing in the background.

The narcoleptic Argentinean did not go to sleep that night.

****


End file.
